The Empty Mirror

Underworld Academy

And so, we had learned the true meaning of bravery, venturing into the heart of the murderers and witches of this peculiar land, amidst the stifled sobs of some brave souls and the muted laughter of others, perhaps already deranged, under the watchful eyes of the church clergy. Was it, then, my destiny to become a monster, or was it my will that drove me to it? For with my face pale as that of a corpse, I lightly stuck out my tongue and licked my lower lip, in a constant cycle, with dry lips and always licking, my tongue became the standard bearer of the destruction of negativity and a new beginning. The journey itself was indescribable; it felt like an eternity and yet, at the same time, like a brief interlude, a phenomenon that defied continuous space-time, but at last, we had arrived at Underworld Academy, the school of magic.

Upon arriving at the illustrious seat, we descend from the carriages guided by the nefarious clergy, without injury or bruise, unlike the aforementioned cowards. Stripped of the veils that obscured our vision, the ecclesiastical emblem is revealed to us, a plethora of thin and sinuous lines, resembling a distorted staircase, delineating a pattern that arouses curiosity and unfolds a fascinating complexity. Each stroke merges with the next in an enigmatic dance of repeated forms, forging a structure that seems to guard secrets from time immemorial and boundless potential. Enchanted by such a spectacle, my eyes survey the enclosure that now welcomes me, with the carriages behind me, from which the vilest beings descend to join the cavalry, as we are led along the gloomy path that winds towards the main atrium of the aforementioned college. I perceive how the mist envelops my being like a frigid cloak. As I progress, the figures of gargoyles carved in dark stone emerge from the fog, with faces of terror and defense, their eye sockets empty yet filled with cryptic knowledge. The atmosphere is imbued with the scent of incense and myrrh, the crunching of leaves under my steps echoing in the silence of the tomb. The trees surrounding the cloister rise towards the sky like vigilant sentinels, their contorted branches forming threatening arches over my head. Upon reaching the edge of the atrium, I find myself before a wrought iron door, adorned with ancient scriptures and cryptic symbols.

With a mournful groan, the door creaks open slowly, unveiling the veil of the dark heart hidden behind it. Before me unfolds the main square, a tapestry of sombre stone and worn slabs that dissolve into the shadows. At its centre, a fountain of waters of bizarre greenery, akin to an enchanted cauldron, flows from the jaws of a contorted demon statue, whose crimson eyes glow with a supernatural brilliance. Along the boundaries of the courtyard, stakes stained with blood stand like flickering torches, burning with a flame of bluish hue, casting wandering shadows that sway upon the walls of the watchtowers. Sculptures of grotesque beings and nightmare chimeras rise in the darkest corners, their silhouettes distorted by the passage of centuries, akin to wicked demons and wolves. Upon the scattered stone benches throughout the courtyard, disciples gather in whispering conclaves, exchanging mysteries and conspiring in hushed tones.

Their black robes flutter in the gloomy wind, and their eyes sparkle with a mixture of malice and anticipation for what is to come. At that precise moment, I become aware that my own being is also wrapped in a cloak of jet black, worn from use, much like all those who descended from the carriages, dressed in identical fashion, as if we were victims of some soporific potion and stripped of our garments to be moulded at their whim, or perhaps, it is the effect of some unusual enchantment, I am unsure which of the two possibilities is more plausible. Nevertheless, as I venture into the courtyard, I sense the weight of history looming over me, the tangible presence of dark sorcery and forgotten mysteries that lurk in every shadowy nook. And though risk and uncertainty envelop me, I cannot suppress a strange fascination for this enclave, a fervent desire to unravel the veiled enigmas that lie within its depths.

And suddenly, before my eyes unveiled a series of clergy clad in ebony robes and broad-brimmed hats; every fold and crease of their capes seemed to pulsate with the history of countless spells and enchantments, and their peaks rose towards the heavens like beacons of esoteric power. Those beings, whose sacred attire concealed all their humanity and whose faces remained veiled, were indistinguishable in their gender, shrouded in mystery. In that moment, all of us who had descended from the carriages were compelled to assume a military formation by the mere presence of these enigmatic figures; we were ignorant of what was happening, and I, undoubtedly, was the most devoid of understanding. Amidst such arrangement, the veteran disciples who did not share our bond glided with feline strides, avoiding disturbing the ceremony and paying reverence to the bizarre figures in black hats, before withdrawing from the main courtyard and entering the rugged enclosure. In servile formation, we witnessed how the carriages departed from whence they came and knights in imposing armor marched around the seat. Then, the words of one of the clergy in wide-brimmed hats began, not because he held command, but because his voice rose as the voice of the congregation.

He then speaks, standing amidst us and his accomplices, proclaiming: "We are the priests, aware that a sea of doubts floods you at this moment. You are mere peasant beggars, hailing from regions of various mythical meeting points, such as Mummy Bridge. Pay heed to the words of a holy clergyman, for you find yourselves in one of the dioceses of the Holy Church of Involution, whose motto is the progress of the eons. For centuries, faith in the Most High has spread far and wide across the continent, and we know you are faithful devotees who have endured the unimaginable to reach this point, overcoming the test of cowardice or bravery. The church, at designated intervals, celebrates communions to recruit new believers to uphold the will of the Most High. Now, you will be trained to become knights; in this new cycle of recruitment, held every few years, you are the blessed ones by divine grace.

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Worthy of this opportunity you are, so if you fail, the price will be your life, yours and your families'. But if you prove brave, your families will also be fortunate. The recruitment is based on gathering the predestined from different regions and bringing them together at a specific point of ecclesiastical control to overcome the first trial, considered by many as one of the most arduous. You have been brought here by the deacons and escorted by knights, to what you aspire to become to serve. Here you will receive the doctrine until you become warriors. So now we will show you to your quarters; follow your respective priests," he said, as each of the priests positioned themselves in front of certain columns of congregants. At that moment, a black mist engulfed the atmosphere, and now we traverse labyrinthine passages, obediently following one of the priests, almost with our heads bowed to the ground in reverence and glory to the clergy.

And as I advance, following the clergyman, the congregants and I enter into rooms aligned as if it were a cursed sect. The priest, mute, merely walks, marking the rhythm of time like a pacemaker of our actions, pointing the way to the awaiting chambers, akin to a funeral procession under an imaginary coffin looming over our heads. All, in a state of subjugation, obey the scant words of the clergyman, while the scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes like a mournful drum, and everything is tinged with shadows. I find myself almost at the end of this funereal procession, and when there is almost no one left by my side and I sense it is time to enter one of those rooms, the priest, like a spectre, seems to emerge behind me and, with a firm gesture, pushes me against the wall with a force that seems immense.

I hesitated in my judgment of his nature, for he could well be a creature born from the very hanging gardens, given the brutality that emanated from his being. Astonished, I watched as the priest, resembling a spectre arisen from the deepest night, advanced and took the lead of the funereal procession. None of those present diverted their gaze towards me to inquire about what had happened; they all seemed to have their tongues imprisoned in their mouths and continued their march without daring to question the prelate, as if they were mere leaves carried by the whirlwind of fate. The clergyman, lord of the shadows, having concluded the mournful lesson, stood before me. It was as if the very darkness had taken human form, and with a violent tug of my hair, he lifted me until our views were equal. "Harlot!" he shouted with a voice that resounded with malevolent resonance.

"Do you think that by giving me your body, you have already become a knight? Foolish of you! You are my property, my little one. I have yielded to your whims and acted to have you summoned to this diocese. I have also noticed that you now masquerade as a bandit. What would your patrons say if they were to discover that you are nothing but a little woman? It is unfortunate, but now you belong to me. Be obedient and clothe yourself in these garments; I trust you will know how to please, as you have already shown. Or perhaps you are ignorant that I know the delight you find in dressing in feminine attire, libertine? I know your pleasure well, so adorn yourself with these clothes." The darkness of his words resonated in my ears, while the weight of his infamous accusation bore down on my soul. His dominion over me was as unquestionable as the one he exerted over the shadows that served as his retinue.

All of this was uttered as he dragged me by the hair towards his mouth, then sealing my right cheek with a kiss. From his hands, which seemed more like shadows made flesh, emerged female garments of the purest whiteness, descending to the ground with the solemnity of a sacred rite. And it was in that moment of bewilderment that I perceived the presence of blood on the hemlines of such attire. My eyes grew hazy, and the ticking of a wall clock echoed in my mind like the omen of an inevitable fate. Upon looking again at the clergyman, and catching a glimpse of his blue pupils from the corner of my eye, a primal dread seized me, although I soon discerned that the entity before me was far from being the man I had once known. The stench of blood brought me back to the realm of the sane, and I found myself sitting at the edge of a bed. No, it was not a waking; time had been stolen from me, and now I was in a strange room. My comprehension crumbled, as if my mind was about to dissolve into a chaotic formless consciousness. Nothing made sense: neither being a trained dog, nor the clergyman's ominous sentences, nor the reason for his male allusion towards me. Such was the confusion that my judgment faltered, immersed in the labyrinth of the incomprehensible.

Exploring the rough texture of the sheet with my fingers, I struggle to sit up and gaze upon the girl who shares the room. She is a woman, perhaps a year younger than myself, with black, abundant hair cascading down to the middle of her back like a nocturnal waterfall. Her hair, as straight as the distant horizon, and a split fringe adorning her forehead, frame her pensive face. She wears glasses that veil her melancholic eyes, and her solemn gaze seems to guard jealously a world of secret ponderings. These lenses, though of simple craftsmanship, are miraculous in their function; whether convex or concave, I couldn't say for sure, they sit in a solid, unadorned frame, forged from horn. They appear sculpted with the skill of a craftsman, providing subtle magnification or correction to sight. The frame, seemingly rough and devoid of ornamentation, is crafted to securely hold the lenses in place.

The temples grip behind the ears, while others rest simply on the bridge of the nose. Comfort and fit are sacrificed on the altar of functionality and utility. Her finely sculpted eyebrows, graceful nose, and though thin, lips compose a face worthy of praise. When she smiles faintly, she reveals her pearly teeth, and her ears are partially hidden beneath the veil of her hair. Her cheeks, naturally playful and flushed, along with her alabaster skin lightly tinged by the sun's kisses, complete a portrait that invites contemplation. As our gazes meet, I notice that we all dress alike, in worn black tunics, dictating the uniformity of this place as strange as it is sombre.